Foundling
by ncfan
Summary: Hashirama can deal with what happens next. 'Founders.'


Okay, yeah, this is now definitely AU (no more "maybe" or "somewhat" about it), in that, primarily, my issues are with the canon timeline. Go see my profile for more (If you care).

I own nothing.

* * *

Hashirama's heart is heavy as he looks about the town, at the destruction before them. He's pretty sure this town is over the border of Kaminari; perhaps Kaminari's forces won't retaliate for this offense, but no one in the Senju can be sure. The world as Hashirama knows it is steeped in endless warfare. He's not sure what sort of difference it will make to have one more tide beating against their backs.

This October is the fourth year of Hashirama's time as a man, as a soldier of his clan. Normally boys and girls of the clan would become soldiers at nine, but thanks to his abilities, Hashirama was pressed into battle before his time. Hashirama spends most of his time with his cousin Toka, who's studying genjutsu under one of the masters in the clan; they're on good enough terms that they trust each other to watch their backs. Due to Hashirama's miraculous control over plant life and his capacity to use his ability in warfare, he's put on all the most dangerous missions. This is his third in the past week, and he's starting to feels as though he'll never be properly rested again; all the world's in a haze.

Toka's gone off somewhere, reporting to the squad's commander. Hashirama steps in a pool of ash and remembers the fireballs of the Uchiha that made them, scorching hot and blinding. He'd brought up a wall of wood to defend against it, but the wood had been incinerated in seconds.

"Hashirama?"

They…

"Hashirama?!"

He gets a sharp shove to the shoulder and looks around to see Toka staring at him, brow furrowed. Her face is smoke-stained, a smear of blood making her brown hair stick to her forehead. Toka's thin mouth is contorted in the typical mix of worry and irritation she reserves for Hashirama when he's doing something she thinks is worthy of the emotions. "You okay?" she asks, tilting her head and shifting the weight of the ono* at her hip.

Hashirama nods absently, eyes straying over the sight of a slowly burning building. It's been raining and the wood is wet; the fire doesn't have an easy time of consuming its prey. This village the fighting spilled over into was mostly inhabited by civilians. Did everyone get out in time? Hashirama wonders. Did the people in the house make it out in time?

"Hashirama!" Toka shoves his shoulder again and he tears his gaze away from the fire to look at her. "Hiroaki—" their commander "—says that we're to kill anyone we come upon who isn't one of ours." Her eyes are heavy and drooping, but her voice is resolute, perhaps resigned. "We can't take the risk that the Uchiha are hiding out among the civilians."

"What?" Hashirama gapes at her, hoping he doesn't understand. "But what about the civilians?"

She shakes her head, doesn't look at him, and grabs his hand, shoulders slumping slightly. "We have our orders, Hashirama. Come on."

The sun sets on the smoldering ruins of the town as they search through burnt-out shops and houses, looking for any signs of life. Fabric, furniture, pieces of paper, all the signs that there was a world here, fall apart in Hashirama's hands as he tries to grab on to them. A letter, the deed to a house, a photograph, he can't tell what it was, but he tries to imagine, and all the while his stomach twists itself into tighter knots and his heart feels more like a lump of lead bobbing in water than an organ pumping blood.

Toka is silent, her long bangs obscuring her face from view. The only times she turns to him is to make sure he's not wandered off somewhere; her hazel-colored eyes are veiled and shut, revealing nothing. Toka's good at putting a mask up over her face; she's probably the only one of the children of the Senju clan whose face Hashirama can't read. He has no idea what she thinks of this, beyond a vague sense of unhappiness. She is his ally in the clan when he gets into arguments with the other children, but to the adults she capitulates immediately. Maybe, Hashirama supposes, he should feel sympathetic—Toka is in the same boat as him, with no parents and little status—but mostly it just frustrates him.

_How can anyone think someone's wrong in their head and then go ahead and do it anyways? I just don't get it. Do people really do that a lot? Shouldn't we just say what we mean instead of being so… so… so _two-faced _about it?_

That's a question Hashirama's not sure he can answer. He longs for the day when none of this is necessary, when he, his people and anyone else who wants one will have a home where they can live, so they don't have to steal for food or work to exterminate their rivals just to survive. But just as much as he longs for that day, he's unsure of how to accomplish it. He knows how to kill, but he's not sure how to save people. Especially not from themselves.

Then, he sees a small white blob, barely visible in the dying light, beneath a fallen latticework.

It's all Hashirama can do not to cry out as he rushes over to the latticework, throwing it aside and staring beneath, brow furrowed and heart beating wildly, all he can do to remember that shouting would only alert his fellows to the existence of a possible survivor.

There's a small boy lying nestled in the dirt, curled up, eyes closed. He's covered in dirt, soot and blood, but his hair is so white that no matter what dirties it, it's still recognizable as such. Hashirama reaches down and brushes hand across the boy's cheek. _How old is he? Four? Five? Oh, don't be dead. _He swallows sickly._ Please, don't be dead. You ought to be alive. You ought to live. Please still be alive._

The boy's eyes flutter open, heavy and drooping. Hashirama lets out a choking laugh, hand shaking as he wipes away some of the blood from the boy's brow.

"Hashirama."

This time, Toka taps him on the shoulder instead of shoving him. Her eyes flicker from Hashirama, to the boy, then back to him. "Hashirama," she says very quietly, standing so her shadow falls over them. "We have our orders."

No. No. He shakes his head violently, feeling his heart grow cold and heavy again. "No. No, I won't."

"Hashirama…"

"Who'd mistake him for an Uchiha?! He looks nothing like them!"

Toka frowns dubiously. "He _does _have red eyes, Hashirama, if you've noticed." But her will is faltering from the fluttering in her throat and the weak timbre of her voice, and Hashirama knows it.

"No. No, I won't do it. I won't kill him and I won't leave him here. I swear to God, Toka, I won't do it." Hashirama leans down and gathers the boy into his arms; the child has not said a word, nor made a sound up to this point, seemingly unaware of what's going on around him, but when Hashirama pulls the boy's head against his chest, he starts to cough weakly, wheezing like an old man who's spent his life smoking tobacco. "It's okay," Hashirama whispers to the boy. "Everything's going to be okay."

Toka tugs on his sleeve, whispering "Just be ready to deal with what comes next," and Hashirama nods resolutely and stands up, hoisting the boy's weight onto his hip.

He's ready.

* * *

*Ono: Japanese for "axe" or "hatchet." It's sometimes used as a weapon. Let's assume that the Senju can't afford top-of-the-line weaponry for all its members, and that Toka, being a Branch Member near the bottom of the pecking order, doesn't have the money for something that is exclusively used as a weapon.


End file.
